


He Will Be Fine

by orphan_account



Series: Wrong & Right [1]
Category: Gravity Falls
Genre: Angst, Denial of Feelings, Gen, Self-Denial
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-17
Updated: 2015-10-17
Packaged: 2018-04-26 20:18:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,265
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5018998
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Stanley was always Stanford's other half.  In fact, there was once a time he thought he was his better half.  But in one night, Stanley shattered his project, his future, and his trust.  Something wasn't right, though.  It didn't add up.  It wasn't logical.  The equation was skewed.  But through the years he denies it all because he accepts the most logical explanation.  After all...</p><p>Stanford Pines was never wrong.</p>
            </blockquote>





	He Will Be Fine

There was a time where Stan was his better half. In fact his half in general, in anything. Stan supported him through everything and defended him when he couldn’t do so himself. In return, he stood by him, helped him get by. But of all the times he expected him to be utterly proud, ecstatic for him, he took it away. When he won the science fair, Stan was right along side him, tugging him close when he had is picture taken. When they spoke that night after he was given the offer of a lifetime, Stan didn’t tell him he was upset, Instead he smashed his project, his future, and his trust. Back then, part of him had an inkling something didn’t add up. Why would Stan hide it from him? Both his feelings and his actions. At least if he told him about breaking the device, he could have fixed it.

Maybe they could have worked things out.

Maybe he wouldn’t have been kicked out.

Maybe he would still have his brother.

Stan made mistakes, but he never hurt him so terribly before. It wasn’t logical. It didn’t add up. He felt betrayed, but he wanted answers. He never got far on his own. His father was quick to catch on and come to him to soothe his worries.

“He was smothering you,” He would say. “He kept keeping you from reaching your fullest potential. If you weren’t always lagging behind for him, you could have gone places. Instead you let him ride off your coattails and drag you down with him. Your brother at least has personality. With that, he’ll be fine. Everyone loves charisma.”

And back then, he accepted it. His father was right, and it was the most logical part of the whole incident. Stan was good with people, charismatic, and strong. Wherever he was, he would be fine. Their entire childhood proved that Stan could hold his own. With that in mind, he dismissed why it ever came to that. What happened had happened, and he couldn’t change that fact. Stan was better elsewhere, better off apparently considering the lengths he went to stop him from leaving. It was childish, unhealthy. But as much as he wished he could forget his brother, he couldn’t.

As the years passed, he subconsciously found himself building a small collection of ships and boats. In bottles, in photos, in paintings. Even a small knick-knack or two that he ended up cramming into the very back of his bottom desk drawer. He just appreciated the architecture, he told himself. Fiddleford always told him his home looked more like a house, more impersonal. But it didn’t end there, no matter how much he tried otherwise.

One day, he found himself at the lake. The sun made the water sparkle like shards of glass, and the air had a bite to it. His mind drifted toward afternoons and summer days spent on the beach back home where nearly every night he returned redder than a tomato and had to smother himself in aloe. Back then it was worth it. Back then, they were highlights of his days and childhood. But then all it did was cast a cold shadow over him. Home was what mattered, he told himself. Not what he did so many years ago.

He began to find himself making small sketches and doodles in the margins of his journals. Mindless and merely letting him mind wander, enjoying the feel of his hand gliding across the parchment. But when he awoke from his daydreams, he couldn’t leave the sketches in his journals, in his life’s work. No matter what his partner told him otherwise. Lovely or not, they were still a stain. Both on paper and in his mind. After 10 years, he still told himself Stan was fine.

Stanley Pines was strong.

Stanley Pines was resourceful.

Stanley Pines was safe.

Stanley Pines was fine.

Every time he caught himself drawn in he said it. It became his mantra. He believed it. His father was right. He had faith in his brother. He couldn’t and wouldn’t allow himself to be wrong. He was never wrong. He knew what he was doing, even if the repetitive hang up calls he kept getting were starting to become a nuisance and a distraction. So when he needed his brother most, he scrambled to contact him. He grabbed an old postcard and wrote down the most his brain could manage with shaking hands. After the initial terror washed over him after Stan arrived, relief washed over him.

Stanley Pines was okay.

Stanley Pines was safe.

Stanley Pines wasn’t possessed.

His found his mind and nerves beneath his skin jumping, nearly struggling to stay still. There were too many eyes. He couldn’t let them see. When he heard Stan’s voice, calm and concerned, his hand a warm wave of comfort, just like the way they were when they were children nearly 20 years ago, his resolve nearly broke. He could have faced his brother, confided in him all his thoughts, all his secrets like so many time before. But he didn’t.

Stanford Pines was never wrong.

He couldn’t be.

Especially not then.

But Stan didn’t understand. He couldn’t confess to his mistakes and his sins just as easily has his brother. He couldn’t afford it.

Not then and not now.

It was his life’s work. He couldn’t destroy it, leave it all for naught. The eyes could still see. He couldn’t stop their staring.

He couldn’t hide.

He wasn’t safe.

Stanley still could be.

He could help him, but it wasn’t happening. They needed the journal still if the eyes kept staring, if one day they acted.

But Stan didn’t understand.

He never could.

He shouldn’t have trusted him. But when he heard his brother’s howls, smell the stench of burnt cloth and singed skin, he felt guilt, horror. That wasn’t what he wanted, wasn’t what he intended, not what was supposed to happen. He just wanted help. Not to hurt him. Not the only person he had left. But to Stan it didn’t matter because the next thing he knew, he was flying. His brain raced, limbs flailing. He was terrified. He called to his brother, but he did nothing, not anything. He just stood there confused, yelling for an answer. So he tossed the only thing he had left and hoped for the best. Hope that he can still trust his brother, for him to do the smart thing.

But as days turned to week, to months and to years, then decades, he realized the smart thing was to not be saved.

Stanley Pines was fine, he told himself.

Stanley Pines was smart in ways he couldn’t be.

But 30 years later, he learned otherwise.

Stanley never forgot him.

Stanley never could let him go.

Never could realize the costs of his actions. It was like being suffocated all over again, a feeling of some sorts closing his throat. There was a time when they were two halves of a whole. Their co-dependency became their own undoing. But he wouldn’t admit to it.

He couldn’t.

To have Stan be so reckless was suffocating because if he wasn’t, he would be too too far, beyond his reach. Stan was fine. He had his family. They were the only family he had left. He didn’t need him. And when summer ended, he could still be fine.

Stanley Pines had personality.

People liked charisma.

Stanley Pines could handle himself.

Stanley Pines would be perfectly fine, just as he always was.

 


End file.
